Shadowhoard
by Yyunesprith
Summary: A lad named James falls asleep in the Wardrobe, and wakes up in Narnia-but not in the time we know best.
1. Chapter 1

To whom it may concern: Narnia, Gale, and anything else you recognize from the books belong to C.S. Lewis, his publishers, and his moviemakers. James belongs to a lass who goes by "the shadow proves the sunshine." I also go by Firiel on fanart-central and Lily of Archenland on TLC, so if one of my screen names ever happens to post this elsewhere please don't accuse me of plagiarism. Thank you. :) Now, presenting—

**Shadowhoard**

**Chapter One: The House at Dusk**

The last of the rain was clinging sadly to the windows of the old place. It was a cheery house, really, when it wasn't too empty or too dark. There was a reddish color to the tiles on the roof, and a homey green to the shutters on the windows, a small garden plot and a young tree out back, and just enough room inside for a fellow to live in it comfortably if he didn't have too much company. There was one spare bed in the attic by a gable window, and just now that was where the only light in the house was glowing.

Inside the attic a boy stood next to a sort of tall closet or cabinet set against the far wall. The candlelight showed a new set of worry-lines creasing his face before he turned his head away, tracing the wood grain of the furniture's door with his finger and remembering.

_"What sort of wood is this anyway, sir?"_

_ "Eh? What's that, James?" The old man stopped mid-monologue and the boy bit his tongue. He hadn't meant to interrupt. The man's bushy white eyebrows lowered at him, hut the blue eyes underneath were quizzical, not angry._

_ "The woodgrain in the wardrobe. I've never seen anything like it before. My father worked at a store that sold furniture for a while when I was small—before, I mean—and, you know, I've never seen anything like it."_

_ The man's eyes grew distant, and at first the boy didn't think he would get any answer._

_ "I had this made from a tree that was very special to me when I was a boy," he said finally. "It was sort of a foreign apple tree."_

James smiled as he thought of the Professor as a boy, swinging from the branches of a tree, or crunching into the sweet fruit, or maybe playing at hide-and-seek with someone, counting and leaning against its trunk. There had been a young girl playmate, he knew—the Professor had mentioned her many times—but he didn't know her name. And what had the Professor looked like when he was small? It was so hard not to picture him as just a miniature of what he was as an old man!

Then a different sort of picture flashed into James's mind. It was an older boy, almost the age he was now, with flyaway hair and a freckle-faced grin. The face would've been painfully familiar if it hadn't had the Professor's eyes.

"No," he said. "I won't go there. He's gone."

His fingers clenched into a fist.

"They're both gone."

It was true, after all. This empty, dim little house with tears of rain on its windows was not the Professor's anymore. The wardrobe made of foreign apple-wood was not the Professor's. It was his. But oh, how he missed him. The house was so empty with only one where there had been two. Even his room was big and empty without the knowledge of the Professor downstairs.

He stood up straight and marched over and pulled the curtains tight, then he started pulling covers off of his bed.

"James," he told himself, "it's alright to be silly if people can't see you." But what he was about to do didn't _feel_ silly. It just seemed as if he was going to be closer to the Professor—or who he'd been as a boy—at least for one night. In the morning there were dull, sad things like paperwork to attend to, and the last ironing out with the Professor's lawyer of how he should handle this property as a minor with no particular relations. But tonight he could do as he wished.

He trundled an armload of sheets and quilts and pillows to the far side of the room, and stuffed them into the wardrobe floor beneath the fur coats. Then he walked back to the lamp and turned it off,, and groped over to his new bed and crawled inside. He pulled the doors shut around him—but not quite, you know, a fellow needed to breathe—and sniffed in the old smells and played in a whirlpool of bittersweet memories as he drifted off to sleep.


	2. The Other Side of the Bed

**Chapter 2: The Other Side of the Bed**

When James began to wake, he thought that he was still dreaming. There was pale yellow sunlight streaming onto his face freely, and at first he thought he was in his bed and it was coming through his window. Then he began to remember where he had spent the night, and he realized there were bits of shadow mixed in with the sun, almost as if he was under a tree. He could still feel the wood and blankets of his wardrobe bunk beneath his back. He could still smell fur and mothballs and old wooden furniture. At the same time, there was the sunlight, and there were damp earth and flowers mixing up with the musty smells, and a breeze had started up to tickle his face with his hair.

If this was a dream, it was a very good dream. It was the sort of dream he'd want back into when he had completely woken. But no, here he was waking himself, and it still all felt so real!

James sat up and shoved away his covers, and looked around. Yes, there was the morning sunshine, and open air at his left elbow. A patch of red clover grew so close to him that his scattered quilt was falling on it. And outside—outside there was the dream. The ground stretched on into a forest, with leafy saplings and old conifer giants lurking around him. Around the wardrobe. It was so real, and yet it couldn't be real. Dream or not, he would put his foot in it and enjoy.

Gripping the edge of the wardrobe, he hauled himself to his feet. His body brushed through the hanging clothes as he stepped down into the clover. Then he looked behind him. Yes, there were the blankets and the pillow, and the nearly-clothed wardrobe, and beyond that the floorboards of his attic and the cloudy color of veiled English sunshine. Whatever strange place he might have come to, the real world was still waiting for his return.

Then the air was broken by a gay, brassy peal of music. Hooves beat the ground, and he heard voices calling to each other. He could have retreated back to England, then. If he had, it all might have stayed a strangely vivid dream to him, and he never would have lived through what happened after. If he had, this story would never have happened. But James stood his ground to see what the dream would bring him next, and out of the trees came a party of men who looked like they'd come straight out of a history book, or maybe a Shakespeare play.

The man at the front of the group had brown hair and a broad smile, and something gold glittered on his head. He had a sort of curved trumpet hanging at his side. When he saw James he pulled his horse to a stop and his smile changed to puzzlement.

"Hai, lad," he asked, "who are you?"

James stood, tongue-tied. One was not _supposed_ to be nervous in one's own dream.

The man swung off of his horse and walked towards him.

"I mean you no harm, man; it's only that I have never seen you before, and I thought I knew all of Adam's blood in Narnia."

Adam's blood… Adam and Eve? Humans? Or did he look like he was related to some man named Adam? And—

"Narnia, sir?" he asked at last, "Is that what this place is called?"

"Yes, you are in Narnia," the man said patiently.

"You must have had a sound sleep," a thin female voice startled him. He jerked his head in the speaker's direction, and saw a small girl with leaves in her hair. No—her hair _was _leaves. And there were roots coming out of her skirt, and the hands she clasped in front of her had twigs for fingers! It was too much. He could feel his eyes go wide, and he started shaking. He tried to remind himself that this was all a dream, and there was nothing to fear, but his senses said otherwise.

"You look like you've never seen a dryad before, son of Adam," the girl smiled.

"D-dry—that is, I don't think I have, miss." He said. Then he turned to the man. "I'm sorry sir, I don't belong here. I'm James, and I just came out of the wardrobe." Realizing how silly that must sound, he gestured towards his bed—and found it was no longer there. In its place stood the trunk of a large tree. He gaped, and slid to the ground.

"How is this happening," he whispered.

The man standing above him looked almost as muddled as James himself did. Then his face straightened itself into something like calm.

"Come with me, lad," he said kindly, and held out his hand. James gripped it and stumbled to his feet.

"Where are we going," he asked, resigned.

"To breakfast!" the man said, and James smiled weakly. That was something, anyway. Then before they walked away, the man bowed to the tree-girl.

"And a good morning to you, maid. May your roots ever be strong."

"And a good morning to you, King Gale!" she laughed.

King? James walked more stiffly, and noticed he was still wearing his pajamas. Whatever else was happening, he had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.


End file.
